


two that fell to earth

by natalunasans



Series: The Gates of Commitment Unwired [4]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Developing Relationship, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Femslash, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Picnics, Post Regeneration, Power Imbalance, Pre-Regeneration, Reconciliation, Redemption, Regeneration Angst (Doctor Who), Regret, Relationship Negotiation, Telepathy, Trust, touch-telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-23 09:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natalunasans/pseuds/natalunasans
Summary: twelve is still dyingexcept missy is thereTARDIS still goes kablooey and falls out of the skythirteen is approximately the one from telly(as well as i could guess before watching any of s11 anyway)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> canon-divergent from near the beginning of World Enough and Time [[my version here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11377899)]  
> this fic basically replaces The Doctor Falls (and the s10 xmas special) in my AU
> 
> * * *
> 
> i used to love twelve in all their relatable autistic peculiarity... then they just kept talking about being kind, while still being frequently a bully... and i started to almost hate them. 
> 
> i needed to come to terms with twelve to embrace thirteen. and i mean... i've "had to be people i hated" (L. Cohen)... who hasn't, really? especially timelords. and isn't it great that people can change?!

“Doctor! You  _ can’t _ ! We’ve only just--” the Master’s words stick in her throat. And really, how could she summarise the past months in one lonely past participle?!

“Missy… Promise me something?”

She squeezes their hand, but whispers, “No promises.” Lying would be easy, she just doesn’t feel like it.

“This is not a good time to develop scruples! I need you to find Bill. And--” the Doctor grimaces, shudders. A golden glow leaks out from every line in their face. The tips of their hair, where strands escape matted curls and stick out at all angles, shine like optical fibres lit from within. It won’t be long now. “-- and look after…” they gesture vaguely around the console room.

There were times when the Master would’ve killed to get her hands on the Doctor’s TARDIS. Would’ve? She definitely had done. But now she bristles like an indignant cat:  _ It’s just like you to do this to me… after all the progress we’d made! Fuck off and leave me just like that, and with homework no less?! _

She’s still gripping their impossibly long fingers in hers, all the slender bony angles intertwined, so the Doctor saves their last breaths for air, and answers her the natural way. It takes a while for their mind to form the unfamiliar concepts, but finally the Master feels… the Doctor’s gratitude. 

_ The cybermen-- the cyber _ people _ … they made me understand something important. About people. About coexistence. And you helped too, of course. _

_ You always were a bit thick. How did they ever let you become a professor?!  _

_ Ah, you know humans. Low standards. They let  _ you _ be prime minister!  _

The Master barks a laugh, but thinks about humans for a bit. She doesn’t like to admit she still can’t quite get her head round them.

_ Tell Bill…  _ there’s more delay while the Doctor processes another difficult idea.  _ Tell her I’m sorry… I was wrong about everything. _

Under normal circumstances, the Master would relish the admission, but these are not normal circumstances.  _ Tell her yourself! You’re not dying for realsies, just regenerating… right? _ “Doctor, you’d better be regenerating! If I don’t get to kill you, nobody does.”  _ And you’ll remember… all of this… right? _

_ Not if I can help it.  _ Their mind crackles with static, almost pushing her out. Is there space in the Doctor’s mind for both their pain and the Master?  _ I’m so tired of being mysel-- I don’t even know what I am anymore. _

She’s got to try, as much for her own well-being as for theirs… if those are even separable concepts.  _ So?! Be someone else! Never underestimate the power of a good disguise. _

_ I’ve done too many things that ‘the Doctor would never do’. I can’t just start over. Not this time.  _

_ I’ll help you! Like you helped me!  _ The Master doesn’t picture the Vault when she says this. Those years still prickle in the back of her mind, but she squashes the thought back down. 


	2. Chapter 2

The Doctor’s memory is awash with recent regrets… Not so much the strangers whose lives they’ve interrupted, although there’s no shortage of those. 

> What stands out from the swirl is the disappointed faces. The friends, and the children.
> 
> Every time they’d given the cruelest possible retort just to seem cool… every time they’d gone for the cheap and easy insult. Every time they’d called people pudding-brains, even if most of ‘em deserved it. They flinch at the memory of playing dodgems with Davros’ life-support unit, but somehow cannot recall how they got away from Skaro. They hear themself snapping at an entire class of children and a maths teacher, but why did they meet them?
> 
> There’s something more, something at the edge of their mind, that they can’t quite reach. Warm almost-memories, but overlaid with a scent of wrongness, of impossible millennia wasted… somehow erased.
> 
> Fast-forward to bringing Missy ‘home’, and the dullness in her eyes when she finally understood it was a prison. Teaching her, as if the Doctor were some authority on goodness. The times she’d lashed out, shouted, thrown her own things across the room, hit her head against her cage until there were bruises on her forehead and cracks, albeit temporary ones, in the self-repairing glass. The Doctor had watched in superior silence, because for once in both their lives the fear in the Master's eyes was directed at them.
> 
> Their arrogance when they let her out for a trial run. A flippant caricature of themself, pretending there was no danger, just like they’d pretended they hadn’t lost their sight, just like they still pretended they weren’t dying. Casually experimenting with people who’d specifically trusted the Doctor not to get them killed.
> 
> Most recently of all, Bill. Loyal, enthusiastic, no-social-filter Bill, who reminded the Doctor of themself, back when they still stood for something. Her look of betrayal when they tricked her into almost shooting them. Their promise that beside the Doctor is the safest place to be, when that’s clearly the opposite of true. She’d saved the world a couple times but she’d also made them chips and listened patiently while they struggled to break down Gallifreyan identity into human gender-and-sexuality terms. And in the end, they’d let her down. The way her face crumpled, her eyes too surprised to fill with tears yet, as she looked down at the hole blasted through her body, then back up at them, all her usual questions silenced by one that nobody so young should have to face… The Doctor should have known then, what Bill on some level had begun to understand: that they had completely lost themself, they were not The Doctor anymore.

Now, they draw inwards, ready to walk down into the sea of their own hypocrisy until it swallows them whole.


	3. Chapter 3

The Master elbows her way further into the Doctor’s mind --oh she can still be rough when she needs to-- shoves aside these images.  _ You don’t have to be like that. If I--  _ She leaves the obvious unarticulated, and brings forward their most recent time together in the solar-farming level of the Mondasian ship: 

> Quarrelling over how best to control the Cyberpeople, then finding out that the question itself was more mistaken than either of their answers. Discovering that no one up here actually needed that much help, and just staying, as if on holiday. 
> 
> The Doctor growing weaker. Whole weeks of insomnia, when they were too tired to lecture her. The Master trying her best to gloat, making half-hearted plans to take advantage… and never going through with any of it. Her legendary patience, not for a long-game deception this time, but just to sit with them, entertaining both their minds with her tall tales, as colourful and detailed as the missing dreams. 
> 
> The Doctor having good days. The two of them learning to tease children without bullying them, and the amazing way the little ones laugh when they’re not afraid. Slipping away together, to wander the surprisingly authentic forest in worn-out clothes. The picnics, the sometimes inedible food. How none of it mattered, so intoxicating was learning to trust again. 
> 
> Heading back in the chill of evening, the Doctor falling and the Master hurrying to catch them, an echo of something they’d both believed lost to time. No fireworks now, but they didn’t need them. The Doctor leaning on the Master, two skeletons in tattered fancy dress picking their way across the fields.  Hauling themselves up the farmhouse steps at the wrong moment and hearing things through the door-- The two timelords mock-recoiling, with a sudden burst of energy, repulsed and giggling together at the evidence of Nardole having human-sex with a human-woman. 

_ Good times, right, Doctor? _

But the Doctor’s mind doesn’t answer.


	4. Chapter 4

That is to say, the Doctor’s mind doesn’t return words for words or concepts for concepts. But it does respond. Good job the Master is quick on her feet.

As the regeneration energy amps up from a glow to a firestorm, the Master darts round the other side of the console, her boot-heels skittering across the cement floor.

She takes a peek, and the Doctor isn’t really visible now, just a flood of golden sparks pouring out as if their face and hands were an opened fire hydrant. The Master’s suit is getting singed, but she’s mostly safe… that is, until they dematerialise.

The TARDIS shouldn’t have been able to leave the Mondasian ship. Has it taken advantage of the free energy spurt, courtesy of the Doctor, to get free of the black hole? Clever girl! Of course, the Doctor’s regenerations _are_ becoming more and more violent. Maybe they’re learning to control their results? The Master’s had this skill for ages, but, like she said, the Doctor was always a bit of a slow learner.

They keep losing and regaining gravity, as the TARDIS hurtles about, flinging them up and down the room like BBs in a can of spray paint. Or rather, since they manage never to actually hit each other, like those puzzles where you try to get all the BBs round to the other side of the labyrinth one by one. She’d solved so many of those in the Vault. A real test of patience, that.

Whatever Doctor she ends up with when this is over, had better make it worth her while. The Master tries to get a glimpse of them the next time they carom past her, especially as the energy storm is lessening now. Have they got shorter?

It’s getting old, this. Being thrown about so much, whacking into the furnishings all the way, and that’s not counting the semi-identified flying objects that have whacked into her. She’s going to be sore once the adrenaline wears off, but the Doctor will be in a fresh new body, feeling no pain. _Way to make a first impression, Theta!_

The Master realises that the palpitation in her side --four buzzes and a pause, then repeating-- is actually her mobile on vibrate. _Oh what the hell, might as well answer._ She grips the phone to her ear and can just hear over the chaos of crackling books and crashing equipment:

“Wotcher, Sis! How’s it hangin’? Got that Doctor of yours sorted?!”

“Can I… get back to you? Everything’s a bit… up in the air at the mo--”

 

Except, suddenly, everything isn’t.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like the master's love of earth pop culture would definitely include memes, for the versions visiting our era. missy especially, assuming she had internet in the vault, would probably have tumblr memorised (where else did she learn dabbing?!)  
> ... but they would not necessarily get the expressions right and they would definitely code-switch wildly between different kinds and eras of slang (leaving us all to guess whether this is a deliberate subversion or some combination of old-alien-shouts-at-memes and greetings-fellow-youths)  
>  ~~the fact that the writer herself is also an old alien getting the memes mixed up, has nothing to do with this. get off my lawn.~~

The pun would be perfect, had not the TARDIS picked this exact instant for a crash landing.

But  _ which _ exact point in space and time? The Doctor always treats this as the most exciting bit… when the sentient ship has materialised according to its own whims and everything is new and ready to be discovered. More fool they. Every place and era has its dangers, its potential for death -- or worse, betrayal. 

She can’t help envying their naiveté a little, though. Must be nice to be able to just jaunt happily out the door and into your next adventure.  _ We can’t all be neurotypical, Janet. _ Of course the Doctor’s no less of a mental mutant than the Master, they're just… not bovvered.

The Master picks her way across the wreckage of the console room. The TARDIS is self-repairing, so the Master’s not worried on that front. The timeship will reboot itself in its own good time, once it's had a chat with the Doctor's mind and seen a bit of its symbiote’s new personality, and what sort of interface they might build together. 

Some of the piles of debris are still smouldering, though, so she’ll need to move the Doctor out of harm's way. Knelt on the floor where the Doctor lies curled in on themself, she touches slim fingertips to the Doctor's shoulder. The lava-brightness has gone, and she prods gingerly at the monochrome heap of wrinkled velvet and frayed silk:  _ you in there, Doctor?! _ Before rolling them over, she savours the impending moment of discovery. She’ll miss their previous untameable hair and noble nose, which had always seemed to echo hers. No matter how elegant --or often, how ridiculous-- their look, the Doctor is the one safe constant in the Master’s universe, but a new face is also a special kind of treat.

Gently, almost reverently, the Master smooths aside straight blond hair (with… dark roots?!) and makes a little gasp. Everything about the Doctor has gone slightly smaller and rounder, except for a pointy little chin and eyebrows every bit as sleek as she draws her own. She licks her handkerchief and uses it to clean the worst of the smoke smudges off new, softer cheekbones. She wonders what colour their eyes are this time, but resists the urge to pry open a lid and check. She’d never admit that the Doctor has usually been the taller of the pair, but she does try to eye-measure their new form:  _ maybe we can share clothes again? _

The Doctor’s breathing is even, and they’re obviously fine but still sleeping-off regeneration, so the Master  gets a grip on the shoulders of their coat and drags them to a clearer part of the floor, just happening to casually slip an escaped chair cushion under their head. 

Finally, she tries to check some monitors and see if it’s safe to go out. No such luck… the TARDIS, too, is still getting its hibernation on. She fiddles with the locks, opens the door just a crack, and takes a whiff.  _ Earth. AGAIN. Still, the Doctor will be pleased. _

The Master makes very sure that no threats are in the vicinity, scans the forest in all directions with her sonic brolly: she’s nothing if not thorough. She props the door open for air. A swathe of sun dances with the still-settling dust and spotlights the Doctor, bringing out the gold in their hair. The Master stands there watching them sleep for several moments. 

After that trip, her own hair is probably looking like a shrubbery. She checks her reflection in a blank monitor and exasperatedly neatens the explosion of frizz into something approaching a loose updo. Then the Master straightens the disheveled remains of her suit, and walks out the TARDIS door.


	6. Chapter 6

_?!?!?!?!_

Sniff sniff

_?????_

Blink blink

 

_Earth’s sunlight_

_Know it anywhere_

_Fire?_

_Is out. I think._

_Oh no, my poor books!_

_Nevermind, there’ll be others_

_Where am I?_

_Oh yes, Earth._

_No, but…_ When _am I?_

_Smells like early 21st Century… could be wrong_

_New nose, you see_

_Wait…_ Who _am I?_

_Isn’t that a question for the ages_

_Definitely alive, though._ “Brilliant!”

 _Ooohh… new voice!_ “Testing? Ey up!”

The sounds ring out clear; echo off walls and ceilings.

 

The person scrambles upright, nearly tripping on clothes which now feel like someone else's: the boots clownishly long on their feet and the trousers bunching up at their shins.

They steady themself briefly on the TARDIS console, which is already beginning to toggle in and out of this dimension’s physical reality, and give it a pat. _Surprise me, old girl!_

The person picks their way among the wreckage, most of which is flickering like defeated video game opponents, on its way to disappearing, as the TARDIS resets. _This never gets old, does it? Starting over, clean slate…_ how could they have doubted?! Not that they remember exactly _what_ they doubted, just an all-encompassing feeling of guilt and hopelessness before they… before _something_.

They could murder some breakfast… _Second breakfast? Dinner? Tea? Jelly babies, even. Or those little cakes with edible ball bearings on. But first things first… even if not necessarily in that order. Where’s wardrobe got to? Clothes make… what is it people say? Maybe I’ll find the Doctor. Wait. Who’s the Doctor?_  

* * *

The Master is hardly limping at all by the time she makes her way back up the hill. She has, let’s not ask from where, ‘commandeered’ a pair of smart dark trousers and a white tailored shirt, as well as some sturdy boots with thicker soles. Her hair, freshly washed, now frames her face’s angles with neat ringlets. Well, neat-ish.

Perhaps best of all is the aroma of chicken tikka masala and fresh basmati rice that rises from the two carrier-bags she’s lugging. It’s not too awfully warm out, despite the rare autumn sun, but she does just break sweat by the time she reaches the TARDIS.

 

Just in time to see a figure leaning out the door. _Great. Still a fashion disaster._

The Doctor sees her and smiles wide and welcoming, all their top teeth showing, as their eyebrows pop up in tight semicircles. “Hello there!” There’s a cheerful lack of recognition in their brown eyes.

“Delivery, for Joan Smith!”

“Oh, wonderful! It’s John, though. I think?”

The Doctor produces a nearly-clean picnic cloth from somewhere (probably those ridiculous pockets of theirs!) and spreads it on the grass. They each take a carrier bag, and set out the various takeaway containers. The Master realises that she has made a terrible mistake. It’s not like when the Doctor used to bring her Chinese or Mexican in the Vault: the person that delivers the food doesn’t actually stay and eat the meal. But maybe the Doctor won’t remember this detail either?

As if on cue, they squinch up their face, making a sad little noise. “Ohhh. I’m afraid I’ve got no cash on me for tips, and you've come all this way. Would you like…?” they gesture at the feast, and it’s all the Master can do not to burst out laughing at her luck.

“What’s your name?”

“Maxine… Lameilleure.”

“Très joli!”

She wonders if the adjective had an E on the end. But the always-oblivious Doctor seems to be only referring to the pseudonym that the Master’s just improvised.

They both dig into the meal, and there’s no need to make conversation for a little while. Between them they polish off every bit of the curry; the Doctor even sops up the last of the sauce with bits of naan.

“You from round here?”

 _Do they even know which side of the channel we’re on?_ “Ha! No, not really. Are you?”

“Nah, just a traveller.”

The Master is cleaning her hands with the last of the paper napkins, when the Doctor reaches past her to collect up the containers, and their arm brushes against hers. The Doctor's mind, still familiar and yet fresh, sparkles as warm and electrifying as their smile. The Master only just manages to shield her own identity under cover of the streaming psychic energy that's released--


	7. Chapter 7

> Explosions. Fields. Metal men. A castle. A cave. Vikings. All sorts of humans. More metal men. Too many trees. Another bloody castle. Soft jumpers. Puzzles. Several species of totalitarians. Sentient lizards. Sentient wax. Sunflowers. More humans. Other aliens, with one eye. More aliens, with many eyes. Running. A very important box. Moving statues. The texture of granite. A quarry. Fish-faced monsters. Faceless monsters. Turtle-faced monsters. Tree people. Cat-people. Cat-nuns. Cat-warriors. Ice-warriors. Atlanteans. Giant insects. Colonies. The odour of sulphur. Disguises. Horses. Caves. Demons. More explosions. Water. Mars. Wars. Ghosts. Pyramids. A lighthouse. Theatres. A crystal. A swamp. Data cylinders. Things with claws. Duels. Devices. The flavour of copper and acid. Moons. Vehicles. Disguises. Kidnapping. Worlds. Galaxies. Suns. Sums. Citadel. Escape. Wrong texture of heavy fabric. Bullies. Lead perigosto stick in the band. Academy. Running. Red grass.

“WHA!” they shout themself awake to current reality, shaking these too-vivid sensations back into their rightful place as memories. “The Doctor! _I’m_ the _Doctor_. From the planet Gallifrey in the constellation Kasterborous. And I’m so very glad to meet you, Maxine! Can I call you Max?”

* * *

When the Doctor shows her inside the TARDIS, the Master doesn't even need to pretend shock at the dimensional transcendence; she's able to just redirect her genuine surprise at the new interface. The sentient ship has eschewed its previous neon lighting and sleek, dark inner architecture (the latter of which she always rather liked) for more bas-relief textured surfaces reminiscent of interwoven carvings. The Doctor probably sees it as a more organic and artisanal look, but for the Master the new walls are total dust collectors.

When the Doctor, as expected, asks ‘Max’ if she'd like to travel in time and space, she doesn't agree immediately, and the Doctor promises it'll just be the one little adventure, unless she wants to stay longer. _Famous last words_ , but of course the Master acquiesces. The TARDIS has even kept her room, with most of her equipment still intact! It may not like the Master, but the timeship generally knows what the Doctor needs better than they know it themself.

When she's alone, the Master messages her other self with a cheeky snap she took while the Doctor wasn't paying attention: Theta's new face… and their outfit with rainbows on.

> are they behaving themself??
> 
> btw, Bill says nice top
> 
> my dr says still not bloody ginger wtf
> 
> priorities
> 
> smh

She notices, fondly, that he's finally learnt to text without proper capitalisation and punctuation, like a normal person, and then fills him in on the rest of the gossip.

* * *

The next morning, the Doctor glances over their tea mug at ‘Max’. They're not good at faces, never have been. Especially not eyes. But they're struck by the piercing ice-blue of their ‘new’ friend’s gaze. They hope she'll stay.

* * *

It's not that keeping up a persona is difficult: that's always come easy to the Master. But she's lonely for the Doctor's mind, and they must be lonely for hers. With the Matrix inaccessible, it's just them two against the world, isn't it?! And the universe that seemed so inviting when they were young together has shown itself to be almost their equal.

She wonders if they still get as tired as she does some days. They don't show it, but that'd be nothing new.

So, when the Doctor is hyperfixating on TARDIS maintenance, and absentmindedly calls out from under the console, “Could use a hand here, Master!” not only does she come running, she relaxes for the first time in… longer than she'd care to admit.

“If you ever lock me up again, you know I'll have to kill you.”

“You never try hard enough.”

“There's always a first time!”

“And a last, I suppose.”

They work in silence for a bit. It's still second nature for the two of them to match each other's movements, anticipate each other's needs.

“When did you realise?”

The Doctor puts down a spanner and takes her hands. The Master almost doesn't notice that they're getting machine oil on her.

_How could I remember myself, and not remember you?_

**Author's Note:**

> sort-of-illustrations for the missy & thirteen parts of this are at:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234145


End file.
